


Pierced by Thorns

by bansheesquad (deathwailart)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, Loneliness, Past Relationship(s), Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 10:56:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7637398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/bansheesquad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Court of Orlais is a lonely place even for the Empress.  But there is the Arcane Advisor who cares nothing for the Game or the rules, and what does Celene have left to lose when it comes to rumours surrounding her personal affairs and those she takes to her bed?</p><p>Written for the femslash big bang July prompt: season of love</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pierced by Thorns

For all that the Court is a never-ending stream of obligations weighed upon Celene's shoulders, a weight she has borne for decades with each lacing of a bodice before donning a gown chosen just so same as the mask, the eyeshadow, the adornments for her hair, her throat, her fingers, her shoes; with every night spent calculating the odds as she reads between every line into each and every inflection, how they hold themselves, their garb, their entourage, with her eyes straining at the edges at the edges of the world her mask permits since she cannot turn her head too much, no not at all that would be give too much away by far. With every dawn heralded by a pounding headache from a sleepless night reading over reports from her empire and her neighbours, their trading partners, the rest of Thedas as a whole, worrying on what fresh carnage the next day will bring, what the next spate of audiences to endure will require of her, for all that, _for all that_ , the Court is inescapably lonely. A ravenous thing. A dangerous glittering thing but one does not settle for a house cat when one is offered a tiger. Better to time the tiger or make the attempt for the kitten will always love you so long as there is fish in your pocket but the tiger? The tiger might go for the throat. Better to go with a tiger tearing out your throat than to survive a kitten savaging your fingers when you aren't quick enough with the fish. Still, it is a lonely thing to be the Empress. That is a necessity, one she stripped away with her girlhood when the ploy or trappings of it did not suit her tactics. One must never _look_ lonely, how they would talk if ever she did, but no one can be held close lest they be the knife between your ribs that finds a home in your heart.  
  
Celene realises that she should have known better, it makes it no less bitter to realise that in her empty bed, peering into the dark at a door that will never open again unless an assassin comes, at the first pot of tea she makes herself these days.  
  
(Any who might know her burden are dead, victims of the Game that spins madly on with a frenzied bloodied mouth, ball gown in tatters, shoes all danced to pieces. No other soul knows how to carry the greatness and splendour of Thedas in their hands, not one of them, and the paintings and statues and busts that line her nation are silent on affairs of state.)  
  
Andraste have mercy on her weary daughter watching over the home of the faith, but she is so damned lonely. Loneliness does dangerous things, so she has read, isolation used as a torture in some circumstance. Perhaps it explains the madness that takes hold of her, madness that takes the shape of an apostate from the Korcari Wilds with more whispers about her than even Briala. (One day…perhaps one day it will not ache to think of her name the way soldiers speak of wounds from wars and battles fought long ago, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, this litany she whispers in the dark when she is blessedly alone at last.) This woman with a mouth made for sneering that still curls into a smile, her voice so low that sends a dangerous thrill through Celene when she murmurs of the _wonders_ she has seen. This Witch of the Wilds in her gown of dark red velvet, too dark to be fashionable yet every tailor and seamstress is aflutter after her debut, cut too low in the front, with gold embroidery that glitters in the light.  
  
When she smiles, Maker when she smiles Celene feels herself smiling too, feels giddy and foolish.  
  
_Andraste have mercy I am so damned tired and lonely_ , she thinks when the witch comes to her side at the end of yet another long night, in a perfume Celene for all her knowledge of such things cannot name. It frustrates her like so many things about Morrigan do. It makes her smile.  
  
What is love, if not a form of madness? What is love, if not the Maker's greatest gift?  
  
This isn't la splendeur des coeurs perdus, though was that not yet another thing Celene was denied as Empress? And if it was somehow selfish to have Briala, to have one thing in her whole life that was hers and hers alone, then she will accept it gladly, she will carry that for she will only regret that they had to part, the way others forced her hand. But this, what she feels now it's something, a dizzying headlong rush, and her heart is still in Briala's hands wherever her love might be. And it will be fleeting. Oh that she knows. A season. Shorter even. Before the leaves turn it will be as if it never happened for she is Empress Celene Valmont, the First, the Lioness, and even should she maintain her hold of the Empire (Maker grant her that, do not let that tyrant crush it beneath his heel, choke the life from it, undo every great and beautiful thing she has set in place) then Morrigan will go.  
  
She cannot cage a wild thing. The Court will never allow Morrigan to stay even if the woman wished to. And if Celene is honest with herself she doesn't wish for the witch to ever become accustomed to the taste of palace life; Celene chose the chairs, she knows just how very comfortable they are.  
  
"Come," Morrigan urges her, far too close than propriety allows, close enough for Celene to feel the heat of her as eyes turn their way. "I have something to show you."  
  
"I cannot leave my own party." Celene replies, smiles for the audience, tight and polite enough the strain of it damn near threatens to crack her jaw. In the corner of her vision flutter Ladies Fleur, Couteau and Colombe, velvet and taffeta butterflies; cowed by the spider in their midst more than they ever were by the viper. (There is not one whisper that does not reach Celene, if _Enchanter_ Vivienne believes she is able to outplay her Empress then she is sadly and utterly mistaken, but she is welcome to try.) It is yet another moment where her heart seizes with longing for Briala. Briala was a balm during such things. Never present since even Celene could not be so bold, so open. But Morrigan is barely even Fereldan, and Fereldan is scarcely civilised.  
  
As if to give credence to some of the more ridiculous rumours and slander that swirl about her, Morrigan rolls her eyes (a terrible habit, Celene's knuckles would have been whipped for such behaviour as a girl by her tutor), not bothering to hide the sneer on that – very lovely, Celene cannot deny – unmasked face. But another slight. "Tis _your_ party. At last half these people shall weep only crocodile tears upon your demise, for the sake of appearances. And only if that were declared the height of fashion, one would imagine."  
  
Celene cannot argue with that, but she sighs since she can't be seen or heard to agree with such talk in public. Instead she links their arms, at least allowing her to catch her by surprise that away, filing away that Morrigan draws in a sharp little inhale, that she watches her very carefully until they must walk together. "I must wish them all well, show them the hospitality of my halls, reassure them that all will be well; the Orlais that has prospered and shall prosper under my rule while Gaspard seeks to drive us back into the dark days. There will be none of this if he takes the throne. They will not have any of this ever again." Leaning closer, under the guise of adjusting Morrigan's gown – she shudders, goose bumps prickle her skin, how interesting, how oddly charming – she continues in a low voice with her polite little smile that longs to be sharp and savage as a silverite blade. "And I must watch each and every one of them. The Game-"  
  
"I have suffered tales of The Grand Game long before I met you." One hand dismisses the notion, the way one might swat a fly. The witch has a smug little smirk on her face.  
  
Beneath her paint and powder, beneath her mask, Celene can feel herself flushing with a quiet fury. That this woman would dare to speak to her thus, and yet she cannot deny the thrill it sends through her all the same. She could commiserate sometimes with Briala about this (will she ever stop comparing them, she wonders, when they could hardly be more opposite?) but all she wants to do with Morrigan, all too often is to crowd her against a wall. Hard enough to knock the breath from her. To steal away all her smart remarks. To kiss her again and again until she cannot think. Dangerous. Foolish. A hundred alarm bells should ring out. She should withdraw, reconsider. If anyone knew, if _Gaspard_ knew…But after the play at the Grande Royeaux? Everyone knows. As far as that part of her life is concerned, does she have so much left to lose?  
  
(Yes. She has her Empire. An Empire she has ruled from the age of sixteen through grace, and skill, and cunning, through hard work, through blood, some her own, a greater portion not. Her life too, when of late she has come so close to losing it enough that she would rather remain safe and among the living.)  
  
Morrigan has her uses for keeping some of the more weak-willed and wearying elements at bay; when Vivienne was Court Enchanter, both of them playing the Game, everyone was to be spoken to. A few bad habits might be indulged at a party when the hour has grown late and she has indulged every at least once or twice. There are official hours for petitions. Even the Empress is allowed a moment of leisure. When she tells Morrigan this, the woman regales her with a tale she cannot possibly believe; a great many oddities took place during the Fifth Blight, but Morrigan and Leliana, the same Leliana that is now Divine Justinia's Left Hand called by Sister Nightingale, infiltrating Fort Drakon in the guise of Chantry sisters to rescue the Grey Wardens? No, that she cannot believe. Her laughter is unexpected to both of them, real and sincere for the first time tonight, and Morrigan's smile softens at the edges. It helps the night to pass a little faster, until they can retire to Celene's private chambers where Morrigan can show her something new discovered from some ruin.  
  
No matter how exhausted Celene might be, she always wakes herself enough to listen, to ask questions until she has none left and Morrigan departs, satisfied until the next.  
  
By morning the servants and handmaids bring fresh word of blood magic with Celene's tea, missives, and her gown for the day. She shakes her head at the raven perched on her windowsill; it seems to bob its head in amused understanding.  
  


* * *

  
  
For all that the Court likes to believe that Celene is never without her arcane advisor, keeping her close at hand has only been a recent development. Much of her work requires travel so Morrigan has often been to places in the Empire that Celene only knows from reports, from the nobles that come from there, from her many maps. A difficult woman to get along with – it would please Morrigan to no end to be told that – that only makes the rumours of blood magic that much more laughable. Were Celene a mage, inclined to such things given her studies and discussions on the matter, especially since returning back through the eluvian, then she would go for complete obedience with some of the truly abhorrent. If she found herself in particular need of peace. Though such things likely start out small then spiral very quickly out of all control. But any form of peace, how she misses that. She has solitude. She has the empty gulf of her bed.  
  
She has loneliness.  
  
There was always Briala until there was not, and if there is something she wonders at, it's that Morrigan seemingly never _wants_ companionship. Watched as best anyone can watch someone with Morrigan's talents, yet there are none who stand out that she's particularly close to.  
  
Tales of the Fifth Blight are not as any Tale of the Champion, privately Celene suspects that all involved prefer it thus, most of all the Wardens. Celene has made attempts as have her ladies, since it is fitting to have a companion, a confidante, or the _appearance_ of one, a dear friend, even a lover. Morrigan spurned them all long before and now she is glad of it without guilt; there is no chance of betrayal, or alliance. Morrigan is dedicated to her work, they should all be so lucky; to have someone so prepared to do what is needed without another agenda simmering away in the background, even if there is a faraway look in those wild gold eyes.  
  
(Once though she did catch the witch with someone, only the last person she expected to see her with. A boy without a name, hardly the job of an Empress to keep track but none seemed up to the task of providing the details; they seemed to slip through their fingers somehow. Morrigan and a boy that could only have been hers; the pale skin, the gold eyes, the dark hair, the particular way of holding themselves and looking at the world. She watches from a balcony as Morrigan sits outside with a book in her lap. The boy runs in the gardens with the children of the servants though his clothes are far finer, that odd little boy. A touch too solemn from what Celene has heard. A little too serious. But she sees him now, Darkspawn and Wardens, Morrigan's smile gentle and fond—  
  
Celene gives her this secret, gives her time watching children at play with Darkspawn and Wardens, little elves and humans and elfbloods racing as their parents work to keep Orlais running smoothly. She is generous. She has seen enough childhoods stolen by The Game.)  
  
Not a single soul knows of this, she has her spies investigate further once again. A boy kept free of his mother, a boy kept free of anything that might harm him, and Morrigan untouched by something that might be used as a terrible knife between her ribs. More shrewd again than so many would give her credit for but if she truly is a daughter of Flemeth, if Flemeth is even a fraction of what the legends say? Superstitious nonsense, that is what some dismissed Celene's interests as even before she saw the eluvians but now that she knows better, she can't discount wild rumours, wilder tales. Survival has _meaning_. Celene has learned that to her peril, to her credit. But if she is a daughter of Flemeth, Asha'bellanar as the Dalish call her, then all that she knows how to do? It cannot be so very surprising.  
  
When she comes to Celene past her guards after her absences, radiating pride. Never revealing how she managed it in the first place as the guards bluster, furious, embarrassed. More and more lately. How Morrigan _manages_ to bring back some of the things she's brought back without her knowing has the mind racing. An enigmatic smile loses much of its charm when there are gritted teeth behind it however. But she isn't lonely when she has Morrigan. She knows where she stands in her estimations.  
  
When she reads casualty reports, when she must move pieces on the board to better see the lines out in the Exalted Plains where her soldiers fight Gaspard's? She will take it and think herself merciful for a moment.  
  
"Will you not stay?" She asks one evening when it grows late, after they have eaten a meal together (Morrigan has picked at hers, wrinkled her nose, raised eyebrows, not a complaint out of her but the whole meal was treated as a peculiarity, a fascination, Celene did not imagine she would find such behaviour endearing) and shared one of the bottles of wine brought up from the cellar. A good vintage, not the best, but she will make do at the Winter Palace.  
  
"As you wish," Morrigan agrees, with an incline of her head, more comfortable in private behind a closed door. Though that might have something to do with her garb, the robes (are they robes? Mage robes Celene has seen, and no mage in a Circle within Orlais would ever be caught wearing such garments) that are cut so low, that seem cobbled together from odds and ends, with stones and feathers for decoration. She knows fashion as she must, and they aren't Dalish, but they're reminiscent in a way. Making do with what one finds. It does amuse her to imagine the reactions if anyone caught Morrigan walking about the palaces in those. "Was there something you wished to discuss?"  
  
Celene finishes the wine in her glass to buy herself a little time to think, cursing herself for not having the topic ready. Briala had the right of it, she was too comfortable, too assured, her downfall came in forgetting that the Game will still spin on without her too. "Before the war I would discuss the events of the day with Briala."  
  
"I remember," Morrigan murmurs.  
  
"Did you speak often?" Curiosity gets the better of her even when there were reports delivered to her in this very room, in her bed, as her fingers stroked through Briala's hair, pressing kisses to her shoulder, the warm skin of her throat. Still she wishes to know what might have been kept secret.  
  
"There were times she followed me, at your bidding I have no doubt, she would ask questions of my work. Places I had been. I cannot say I knew her well, I vastly preferred her to most of the company you must keep."  
  
"High praise coming from you." Stripped of her mask since she cannot bear to wear it in private now, the bare minimum painted on her face, she smiles and Morrigan smiles back. "I presume you speak of most of my courtiers?"  
  
"Your courtiers, Vivienne-"  
  
"She was not best pleased."  
  
Morrigan's laughter is unexpected, almost delighted. "I imagine she was not. An upjumped apostate? I am sure you will never tell me quite how she worded it but I am sure I can imagine the scorn, a woman such as her would never take to it well."  
  
"You have a low opinion of Circle Mage," Celene prompts; not unexpected, Morrigan is an apostate, she can't imagine any would but there's an edge in her voice whenever the subject is brought up around her.  
  
"They leash themselves, hardly better than sheep, allowing themselves to be taught fear. I have seen madness take hold of a Circle and still spent the better part of a year by the side of one who argued for them. This one was better than many, as is my understanding. But Vivienne?" Morrigan swirls the wine in her glass, dark as her lips, dark as her robes, so much that is so very inviting that Celene's breath catches in her throat, that she presses her thighs together as if that will help. "She is the Circle and this wretched Game of yours, take all that away and what is she?"  
  
Celene's smile is a softer mirror of Morrigan's, but that only means she hides her teeth. How can it be so, that the woman bringing her such mysteries and illuminating them while stripping the wonder has so very neatly torn away the mystique in so few words? Morrigan does not play the game, she steps through it, around it, over it, she glares and it shrinks away from her but a skilled player would bow to that.  
  
(Thresholds, she thinks. Like the eluvians there are those places that exist in this world too. Morrigan does not merely exist in those places, she thrives in them. Celene envies her that.)  
  
"Madame de Fer is well-respected in the Court," Celene replies because she must, even as Morrigan leans forward with a scornful tut in her throat. "Highly regarded. A woman of-"  
  
"Yet you did not look at her this way, did you?"  
  
"I beg your pardon!" Heat flushes from the top of her bodice to her cheeks; only Briala could do this to her, she feels trapped, feels cornered, this is mad, she was a fool. (Andraste have mercy I am lonely, I am only one woman and I might lose it all, grant me something to remind me I am flesh and blood, not only the lioness that they call me.)  
  
"We are both past playing coy; our lives are different but we both know when we are being watched. I am not opposed." Her voice softens at the end, and there are few tales of the Fifth Blight but that does not mean there are _none_ , and some do say that the Warden and the Witch were in love, the Hero of Ferelden; it seemed so very Ferelden. Like in the days of old with Calenhad. "Come here, Celene, war and change have come to the world. Forget your troubles for a time."  
  
It is simple to obey. To allow herself to be kissed, two fingers beneath her chin to tilt her up into a kiss that tastes of the wine they've been drinking, that has Celene's head spinning. She pulls Morrigan down, into her lap even though it makes her bodice crush her lungs painfully, moaning into her mouth. Morrigan kisses hungrily, nips and worries at her bottom lip. _She might devour me whole_ , Celene thinks, dizzy, lost, hands curved around her hips. The thought doesn't trouble her as much as it should.  
  
"Come, come to bed." Morrigan beckons, Celene follows, slips her feet free of the shoes that pinch along the way, doesn't care about the mess of her gown as she fights to free herself from it with Morrigan's help. Let the maids deal with it, let them gossip, _Andraste I am so lonely, give me this, give me something_ , and there is Morrigan's mouth, and Morrigan's hands, and Morrigan's bare skin from the waist up when there is so little to remove for her.  
  
Under Celene's fingertips, she shudders when she explores those silver lines on her belly until she hooks her fingers in the waistband of the skirt (Celene assumes it's a skirt, Maker only knows what others would call it) to tug it and her underthings down. Morrigan must sit to remove her tall boots, an enticing view as Celene tries to regain herself, removing her jewellery and the many pins from her hair; those she cannot afford to damage. Those are all gifts compared to gowns that she can have laundered easily, no matter how much she might loathe the necklace she had to wear to an audience with a Nevarran ambassador; too many skulls, smiling garishly.  
  
(Morrigan likes it, she should make a gift of it, see how many of the Court will swallow their pride and start adding them to their wardrobes.)  
  
Morrigan rises to her feet, pulls Celene close to unlace her corset by touch as she kisses throat with one thigh slipped between Celene's, and she arches against it without shame, feeling Morrigan's smile against her skin when she at last frees her so she might breathe again. One shift of her hips and she's naked, a few steps and a tug at her arm then she's pulled into bed, stretched atop Morrigan and she seizes her chance to pin her hands above her head, to kiss her breathless because she can, because she's thought about this so many times before. Only Morrigan moves faster, rolling them over neatly to have Celene beneath her, to kiss down her throat to her breasts, hands sliding over her ribs as Celene grabs at the sheets.  
  
It's been so long that she's gasping when Morrigan takes a nipple in her mouth, sucks gently as the other is rolled and pinched, and she arches her back, cursing. Morrigan takes her time however, explores as she sees fit tracing the red lines the corset has left behind. There's a touch of magic at her fingers (Celene knows magic better now, she will not admit to fearing it, she is not _a_ lioness she is _the_ lioness but she has a healthy respect for it) that soothes.  
  
And then, as Morrigan is close to where she wants her to be after she's left a bruise behind on her hip that she will feel beneath her gowns for days, a private secret so all might wonder at her smile, her hands come up to cup her breasts with a touch of frost.  
  
"You are terrible!" But Celene is laughing as she squirms, her heart racing.  
  
"Shall I stop?" That tone is low and dangerous, Morrigan crouched above her. Celene's voice catches in her throat so she shakes her head and arches her hips, hoping that the witch isn't entirely without mercy.  
  
The hands on her thighs are cool as they part them wider, urging her knees to bend, to plant her feet. She rises on her elbows. If this is to happen only once, she will remember each moment; the kiss to where her thigh and hip meet on either side, the hungry look in those golden eyes, the feather-light touch of two fingers tracing her outer lips that almost threatens to have her collapsing back against the pillows. Then Morrigan lowers her head with a sinuous arch of her back, and her mouth is on Celene's cunt, and the sound she makes might have been dragged out of her as she reaches for Morrigan's hair with one hand, twining her fingers in it. Not to pull, not even to guide.  
  
_This is real_ , she thinks over the fluttering of her heart, the pounding of it in her ear. _She is in bed with me and it is real._  
  
She thinks very little after that.  
  
Morrigan urges her to spread her thighs wider, careful and sure, replacing her tongue with one finger then two to press inside before she slides them free and draws the wetness up to Celene's clit, circling once before her fingers are inside again, curling, fucking Celene slowly. Her mouth is on her clit, tongue tracing patterns that only drive Celene mad, rolling her hips down to meet Morrigan each time. When she slides a third finger in, when all three are cool without being painfully cold, her back arches, drawn tight as a bowstring, and Morrigan doesn't stop. She comes like that, Morrigan's mouth on her clit, her fingers in her cunt, with her own in Morrigan's hair until she can collapse back. Breathless, her thighs trembling.  
  
It takes longer than it used to for her to come back to herself – and even then she isn't herself – to be aware of more than the sweat cooling on her skin, the aftershocks still coursing through her.  
  
"Come here," she urges weakly, tugging Morrigan towards her clumsily.  
  
There are things she would like to do but she's exhausted, overwhelmed, so a hand between her legs, three fingers in her cunt and her thumb on her clit, it will have to do. There are no complaints but her own that go unvoiced (she wants to know what Morrigan would sound like were she to do what she did to her, if she would bite her lip and stay silent or if her screams would echo off the high ceilings). She wants to look everywhere at once, wants to have her flat on her back at her mercy, pressed against the wall, even tied down but she holds her gaze. It's a beautiful picture with those eyes so dark, lips parted, flushed from her cheeks down that long pale throat to above her breasts, hair sticking to her forehead.  
  
She can taste herself on Morrigan's mouth when she kisses her, she's never minded that, swallowing the cry when Morrigan comes on her fingers, hips stuttering to a halt. She teases, rubs circles with her thumb. When Morrigan breaks the kiss to breathe she collapses forward, forehead against her shoulder; the cry is almost a sob when she comes a second time, her hand pulling Celene's away so she can lie on her back.  
  
In the morning they will put on their gowns and it will be as if this never happened, but she will have had this, and the Court of Orlais will never know, the Game will never know. For one night the loneliness will be held at bay.  
  
Morrigan does not wake her with the quiet sound of a hidden door when she leaves before the dawn.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Sappho:
> 
> She who loves the rose must be patient and not cry out when she is pierced by thorns


End file.
